


Unsnarl

by silkblade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ASMR, F/M, Gen, Hair Brushing, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:07:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29444568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkblade/pseuds/silkblade
Summary: Young Severus seeks a touch that doesn't leave a bruise.
Relationships: Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Unsnarl

**Author's Note:**

> Sincerest thanks to the versatile [EGBamf](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/egbamf) for their hand-holding and beta read.

The third time it happens, she's sure it's an excuse. 

As before, they go into the dusty darkness of the garden shed where Petunia won't follow them. He sits on a rain-warped bench, knees shoved against an old barrel of broken trellises. He digs in the pocket of his overlarge coat and pulls out the brush, placing it beside him on the bench. She files behind him, back pressed against the wall to allow enough space between them for her hands and the brush to do their work.

"I can't seem to get them out," he says stiffly, reaching behind his neck to lift his hair. Half a dozen gold-green leaves are tangled there, too evenly spaced to be accidental, pieces of a hedge she has seen somewhere nearby. _Searching for potion ingredients is a likely excuse_ , she thinks. _Certainly many of those in a muggle hedge_. She nearly laughs, but presses her lips together and says nothing.

Gingerly, she unravels dark strands from the sharp leaves, which she sets on the windowsill. He is still and upright in front of her, back straight, hands clamped on to the bench as if he might fall off at any moment. There's a cracked mirror against the wall. She watches him in the dusty reflection as she works. His eyes are closed, lips parted then pursed. His brows knit slightly as she unwinds his hair from the last broken stem. She smooths his hair with her fingers and then lifts the brush. His body is taut.

She begins brushing in short strokes up from the bottom, bristles catching his collar and carding gently against the tops of his shoulder blades. A few broken bits of leaf and stem fall from his hair to the dusty floor. His brows have knit further and he is biting his lip. She looks away from his reflection, but her eyes are drawn immediately back. His chest is rising and falling evenly, as if he is willing himself to slow his breathing. His cheeks are flushed. She curves the bristles against the nape of his neck and he emits a small, desperate sound that makes her face feel hot. She resolves to ignore it, not mention it, and yet as she keeps on, a part of her hopes she can elicit such a sound again.

His hair is dark and thick, straight, with a sweet, musty air of shampoo and old furniture, a mix that contradicts itself. He smells like an empty room, lived in and recently abandoned.

She reaches the top of his head and the bristles bite gently at his hairline. She does each temple several times, guided downward by the curve of his ear. His eyes are still closed, and for a moment, he is pliable to her touch. She gathers his hair in her hands and holds it in a ponytail, turning his head slowly to look at him in the mirror this way. Her gaze falls onto his pale neck, and she sees the shape of a purpling thumbprint on his shoulder. She spreads his hair to cover it up.

She's done, and he seems to know it. He hesitates a moment longer, unmoving.

A sharp rapping at the shed door breaks the peace. He jerks away from her, swivelling toward the door. She shoves the brush back into his pocket as he stands up. He glances over his shoulder to smile at her, and as he turns away, his face falls back into a closed expression, making him look far older than he is. He reaches for the shed door.


End file.
